


the second time around.

by civilorange



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 23:46:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15472746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: sometimes you just need a little artificial bravery.prompt: Kara is on RedK again and encounters Cat at Washington DC. It doesn't have to be extreme or serious.





	the second time around.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenfanfic304](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfanfic304/gifts).



> for christmas in july! i hope you enjoy ~

Washington’s bigger in a way that’s hard to put into words.

It reminds you of Argo city in a way—the flow of people moving from building to building, the curving direction of foot traffic that seems to have no specific purpose. No aim. There, and there, and there—you’re looking for one human in particular, one that wouldn’t be caught dead in _foot traffic_.

Your veins burn and everything seems brighter—closer and farther away both, and there’s a gnawing ache in your gums when you clench your teeth. Not a hurt, no nothing so _human_ , but something that tugs, and itches, and throbs.

Everyone had been trying to be so very careful—but moving toxic chemicals in the middle of a natural calamity often has poor results. You remember the horror on Alex’s face when you’d inhaled—the red seeping into your skin, into your muscles, into everything that is _you_. Like a fuse being lit, the burn began—clawing through every cell, every molecule, until you were _rife_ with the Red.

But National City had seemed so _dull_.

A few bank-robbers left on the roof of the police station, a CatCo helicopter wrapped in enough cellophane that it took the media conglomerate’s interns _three hours_ to unwrap it. You feel wrong, like your skin is too tight, like everything is being pressed together inside—but there’s nothing _untoward_ on your mind. Nothing you think would warrant the six voice mails on your mobile phone—

—or maybe the Red just makes you _think_ everything’s okay.

“Kara, please,” Alex says down the line, her voice crackling a bit as you whirl through the air, the crack of your cape in the wind perfect accompaniment with her plea. “Come in, we can fix this before anyone gets hurt.”

Too little, too late.

Too _something_.

It’s late— _too late_ —now in Washington, the capitol’s never _asleep_ , but resting—the people still walk in oddly organized herds, and the lamps flicker and float in the distance. Large baubles of light that threaten to illuminate far too much. _Too, too, too_ —everything about Washington is _too_.

 _Too_ big, _too_ loud _, too_ far away—and it’s that last one that’s brought you three thousand miles from home.

.

( _Home_. There’s quotation marks around that word—though, maybe not all the time.)

(Maybe, not most of the time.)

(Maybe, just now.)

.

Her balcony is very _west coast_ , like she expects a western breeze when she opens the curtains, and not a single tree on a street of black-SUVs and protection details. You sit on the roof across the street and watch with every dull with human limits—you watch her silhouette pass just beyond her curtains, arm raised like she’s on the phone, and you don’t need your superior hearing to know she’s on the phone with Carter.

You still have her calendar tethered to the iPad you hardly use anymore—still know which weekends are _his_ , a man you still don’t think deserve the right to make her cry.

Back, and forth— _back, and forth_ —and you know that the moment she hangs up—which she does—she’ll turn to the balcony doors and throw them open.

Cat looks perfect.

She’s wearing a robe over her pajamas, and the halo of light from the bedroom behind her makes her still-damp hair glint gold. You imagine someone else would look tired, would look weighed down with the hours, but you imagine a country is hardly as hard to wrangle as an empire.

She leans elbows on a railing just high enough that her head dips forward just a little and you find yourself leaning forward too, palms digging into the edge of the building—heels pressing into historical bricks to keep you balanced.

And then she looks up.

You must look like something other than she expects, because she straightens—fingers curling into fists, and her heart jack-rabbits in her chest. But then she calms. The sluggish beat returns, and something of a self-satisfied smile curls her lips—she must not be able to see the shiver of red underneath your skin, the itch that tells you that you should slip through her bedroom window and see if the exact shade of her eyes has changed.

“Kara,” because you’re not in your suit—you’re not wearing your family crest, or your cousin’s red cape. You’re in paint splattered jeans and a shirt with ink stains on the cuffs and the collar—she’s watching you wearily and you imagine she’s not distant enough that she hasn’t heard about Supergirl’s _erratic_ behavior.

“Cat,” you say, leaning forward a little more—almost like you’ll tip right off the roof.

“What brings you to the neighborhood?” Casual, light, something tucked up behind her teeth—something sharp and waiting. But that’s Cat Grant, sharp when you least expect it.

“Was passing through,” you hum, thumping shoes on brick. “Figured one of us should stop pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

The pinch of her brow clues you in that she might know more than you expected—she’s watching you, and the mobile phone is still clasped in her hand. Her heart is slow, sluggish almost, but Cat’s always been oddly calm internally—when the world crumbles, she’s in her element.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” she warned, mobile phone tucked away into her robe’s pocket as she leans palms of the railing. “I won’t be another influenced regret.”

She knows. You’ve always known she knows, but that little voice that’s always existed somewhere afraid and careful is quiet and there’s nothing stopping you from making choices.

You push off and forward and float across the street—the street lamps flicker and float in the distance.

Cat takes one step back, then two, and you land silently on cobblestone from the revolutionary war.

“Not really in a regretting mood,” no, you’d much rather focus on the soft light on smooth skin and the warm burn beneath _your_ skin. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” not surprised, but you don’t think she would be, she’s _known_.

“Then where have you been? Why—,” you swallow the rest of the words, choke them down in the burning that’s floundering for a hold. Another step forward, and she doesn’t take one backwards—she’s warm, humans always are, and you just want to _reach out_.

“I’ve,” Cat doesn’t stumble, she stops herself. She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, making it fan out across her shoulders and around her face—it’s longer, much longer, and you want to run your own fingers through it. “It isn’t like that.”

But you don’t want excuses, you don’t want reasons—you feel the Red leaving you, feel the confidence bleeding from you and you know you don’t have long. It’s been a week—of bank robberies, and dodged phone calls, and convincing yourself not to find _her_ —and this is the last chance you’ll have to act on your feelings. You’re a superhero, but even you can’t always be brave.

You kiss Cat Grant.

She’s warm and soft, her cheeks smooth and her lips plush—you can taste the mint on her breath, but something far below the Red, far below this artificial confidence, you expect her to pull back—to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Cat kisses like a conqueror, and you don’t mind being her conquest. Fingers gripping your collar and threading through your hair—it’s better than you’ve ever imagined and you’ve imagined it _often_. The Red bleeds, an open wound, but you’re glad to see it go—glad to feel the whisper of Cat’s fingers against your skin without the _burn_ of something faux under your skin.

“All it took was another exposure to Red Kay?” Cat’s grinning, and you can practically see the canary feathers from between her teeth. She says Red!K with such a tongue in cheek emphasis that it takes you a moment to catch on.

“Wait,” it’s hard to focus with Cat pressed against you, her fingers tracing your collarbone. “How’d—I—how’d you know? I mean, not that you shouldn’t know—you should, obviously—because—but—…”

“Take a breath, Supergirl,” Cat laughs, a sound you’ve missed more than most. “I received a rather concerned phone call asking if I’ve come across any wayward superheroes acting…” another raised eyebrow, and a rough drawl. “… _Strangely._ ”

Cat doesn’t look particularly concerned by it.

.

You suppose, retrospectively, you’d been acting a little erratic.

.

In the morning, with the windows open and the breeze soft—you imagine you might like spending more time on the east coast.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey on tumblr @ civilorange.


End file.
